


Sambuca

by theprophetlemonade



Series: Droplets and Ripples [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drabble, Droplets!verse, Gen, M/M, Marco PoV, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Pool Boy AU, Sexual Humor, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetlemonade/pseuds/theprophetlemonade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco thinks that seeing Jean's habits in other people is normal. Hitch takes it upon herself to inform Marco that he takes dense to a new level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sambuca

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as Tumblr exclusive on 16/02/2014.
> 
> This serves as an insight into the Marco POV of Droplets, and is loosely placed between CH 9 and CH 18, although I do not specify when. I wrote this because people were curious about Marco's second job, and also because I love Hitch and wanted to write her. She's a blast.

The bar is quiet.

I mean, not that it isn’t always quiet – what with us beingthe third dive bar on the one street, which is really just a mesh of Trost nightlife that spreads out five blocks in either direction, which makes the competition more than tough on a good day – but tonight is practically empty.

We usually have a couple regulars who slump over the bar from sundown to sunrise, but today there are more stools empty than occupied.

Maybe there’s a game on? But that wouldn’t explain why parking was still so difficult to find tonight.

And I’m sure if I would’ve heard something about that, if there was – something from Connie on Facebook, or a text from Reiner if he was playing, or a message from Jean, asking if—

Well, there can’t be a game. I guess it’s just a quiet night.

Frankly, it’s not something worth complaining about. The wages aren’t exactly stellar here on a good night, but it’s enough to keep me ticking over – and if I’m earning eight-dollars-fifty and hour to do little more than listen to the low thrum of jazz music over the fuzzy intercom, and organise the spirit bottles by colour on the back shelf, it can’t be all that bad.

The light is red and hazy – smoky, whilst it doesn’t taste of smoke. That was something I’d made sure to do when job hunting – find a bar that didn’t allow smoking inside. Instead, I’m left with the sweet aftertaste of beer in the air, and the stale smell of what I guess you’d call old sex.

The throaty tenor of a saxophone rolls over into something more melancholy and even more bluesy – and we’re not even a jazz bar.

That’s just Hitch.

There’s no getting near the stereo system when she’s on shift, and tonight, it’s just me and her. Marlow will pitch up later to do the sunrise hours – and I’ll be gladly in bed by then – but for now, it’s just me, her, and the handful of stony faced loners perched on every second bar stool, nursing glass tankards and morose faces.

I finish rearranging the bottles behind the bar with a litre full of Sambuca at the end of the row – colourless and vile – or so I’ve heard, but I don’t think I ever plan on trying it to find out.

There’s a group crowded around one of the tables in the back corner – they look college aged, but they’re all in various states of suited and booted, so I figure they can’t be at the university. (And I mean, it’s the summer anyway.)

Their voices are low, but there’s laughter to be heard over the hum of grumbling music, which keeps me awake from dozing off completely into smoky slumber on my feet. I grab a few empty tankards from the bar top, and slink them into the crate of washing up that someone needs to do, letting me eyes wonder over to the hazy hum of conversation briefly, before falling back again when I see the bead curtain from the store room rustle, and Hitch comes floating out.

She looks me up and down with that cat-like smirk of hers, green eyes glinting as she waltzes over to the till and grabs her black apron from beneath it. The quirk of her lips doesn’t fall, even as she slips the straps on over her head and then secures the ones around her waist in a tight knot.

“Evening,” she chimes, and I can see the bluesy rhythm of the music is already in her veins, and she rocks on her feet to the sound of old jazz.

“Evening,” I reply, arranging the last empty glass in the crate, before straightening myself upright again with a satisfying click of my back. “You seem happy tonight?”

“Mmm –  _nope_ ,” Hitch replies with a dry smirk and a shrug of her lithe shoulders, “Not really. Shitty day at the second job, what can I say. Shitty day, shitty week, shitty life.”

She seems pretty  _dressed up_  for a shitty day – short skirt than clings to her thin thighs, floaty blouse embellished with dangerous looking silver spikes on the collar, and heels so high I feel my inner med student cringing at the state of her ankles. If we knew each other better – and if it weren’t so difficult to predict whether it’s an  _I-hate-you_  day today – I would ask her what’s up. But I don’t. It’s easy enough to lapse into silent work instead.

The good thing about working with Hitch is that we know how not to get in each other’s way. When Marlow’s on the shift with me, he’ll walk into me at least twice during the night, and more than likely spill something down my back, or splash me with the beer hose, or stub his foot on the washing-up crate on the floor and swear loudly – but with Hitch, it’s like working with a ghost.

Or a cat, more like, if we’re sticking to the same comparisons. She slinks around the narrow space behind the bar, sliding past me whenever she has to reach a customer at the far end, and I’ve seen her balance five glasses in one hand without dropping any of them before.

She’s especially good at making conversation with those drunk enough to find the courage to get past her intimidating exterior and predatory gaze – and especially good at making them look like idiots when they’re old enough to be her father and still try to hit on her.

I would be able to say that I’ve had to have a stern word with a few of them – if Hitch wasn’t more than capable at destroying their egos and leaving them scuttling away with one bark of her whip-sharp laugh. She’s pretty good at looking out for herself, as it were.

I catch her eyeing up my colour coordinated line of spirits with a smirk and a roll of her eyes, before she grabs the Sambuca and moves it up the row, squishing it next to some Blue Curacao and destroying my order. She grins at me teasingly, a flash of her tongue over her thin lips – and I do chuckle at that. We’d probably go out of our minds otherwise.

One of the men from the group at the back table has approached the bar, and I’m distracted from Hitch’s subtle reign of chaos when he flags me over. He’s a young man – I was right – but maybe a little older than me, now that I can see his face more clearly.

His suit is a little rumpled, and his tie loosened around his neck – and his tongue loosened in his throat, I’d imagine, judging by the way he sways a little, and his knuckles tighten over the edge of the bar as he shimmies his way onto a stool.

His hair is a tawny colour, and shaved into an undercut, and it reminds me of Jean’s. This man’s eyes are a steely grey though, and whilst his face is thin and handsome, he doesn’t share Jean’s high cheekbones and sharp angles.

I sigh quietly as I approach the far end of the bar. Things are getting bad when I start comparing every other person to Jean.

_Try not to think about it._

I’m distracted, a little, when the man’s lips quirk up into a smile when I get close, and he leans forward in anticipation.

“What can I get you?” I say pleasantly, as his eyes skim from my chest and then up to my face, before falling clumsily on the row of bottles over my shoulder.  _Hopefully nothing too strong_ , I add to myself.  _You’ve already had enough_.

“Mmm – you got anything  _tall and dark_?” the man smiles, his thin eyebrows quirking upwards. It’s questionable whether it’s just my head playing tricks on me – but maybe it makes him look a little more like Jean. The way his face is shielded from the light overhead makes his eyes seem darker, and more focussed.

“I can do you a Jack Daniel’s?” I say, “Or a beer, if that’s what you’re already drinking?”

The man seems to find something funny, and I watch his shoulders tremble with a breathy, airy chuckle. He shakes his head, and runs his hand through the forelock of his hair.

_Yeah, definitely like Jean_.

“How about something, uh –  _sweeter_?” he offers. I feel my automated smile droop a little, and take a cursory glance over my shoulder to see what else we have in stock.

“Uh – rum and Coke?” I say questioningly, “Or … we have Bailey’s, I guess, if you want something really sweet.” When I turn back to him, he’s slumped a little further forward on the stool, both his arms resting on the bar top now, but still smiling up at me. Well, maybe it’s more of a smirk now, but he’s drunk and I figure has little control over what the muscles in his face are doing.

I hear the background music get turned up a notch, and from the corner of my eyes I can see Hitch swaying her hips as she tends to someone down the other end.

“Rum and Coke will do me just fine,” the man slurs. He fumbles in his pocket for a moment, before sliding ten bucks over the counter to me. I nod and peel it from the wood, noting how his fingers linger on the end of the bill for a second too long.

_I’ll go easy on the rum_ , I think.

I pour the drink quickly, managing the judge the Coke just right so that its frothy lip of bubbles doesn’t spill out over the glass. Hitch slides up next to me at the till and bumps me with her hip as she moves to open the cash drawer.

“He’s cute,” she says, nodding her head towards my customer.

“He’s  _drunk_ ,” I reply plainly. Hitch merely shrugs, but her green eyes glint in the foggy light.

The man hasn’t moved a muscle when I return to him, sliding his drink and his change towards his sprawled fingers. It’s like the life seems to flood back into his eyes, and he instantly wakes up, shooting me a broad, if unsteady grin.

“Thanks,” he hums – I give him a cursory nod, and move to turn away again, and go back to whatever it is I don’t do for my pay check, when he speaks again. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

I turn back to face him questioningly – it’s not like people don’t try and make conversation with us when we’re on duty, but it’s never usually particularly riveting. Still though, it’s not as if I mind particularly much, and I can humour him.

_You say that, but here you are thinking about Jean every time this man so much as blinks. I say you do mind._

“I’ve been working here a couple months now,” I say casually, leaning back in the small space against the shelves that line the back of the bar. I don’t want to get too close – I’ve seen Marlow walk away with vomit down his front too many times to count. “Do you come here often?”

“Nah,” the man grins, taking a sip of his drink. “’S our first time.”

I can’t help but smirk a little at that, laughing inwardly.  _Well, that explains it then_.

“Work party,” he continues, thumbing back over his shoulder to the table where he came from; my eyes follow to those of a young, red-haired woman, laughing brilliantly, surrounded by an array of other haircuts I can just about make out. Makes sense. Blowing off some steam after the office. “I usually hit up one of the places on Rose Street but … I figured this place looked good tonight.”

I draw my eyes back to his, just as he flicks his gaze up from wherever he was looking, and meets my feigned interest with a glint in his grey eyes.

He adds, “I was right.”

I offer him as best a serviceable smile as I can muster, reaching for some more abandoned glasses two seats along from the tawny-haired man. They clink together in my hands, and I deposit them in the crate at my feet; the man watches me all the while, and I don’t feel his gaze straying.

When I stand straight again, he just smiles sheepishly, as if he knows he’s been caught.

“You ever tried any of the other bars in the area?” he offers, before draining the half glass he has left. “There’s a good one two doors down. What time d’ya get off tonight?”

Okay, so he’s a friendly drunk. It’s not like it’s unusual though – a few drinks makes almost everyone think that they’re the bar keepers best friend. It’s a game Hitch and I have got good at – even if Hitch’s game plan usually involves trying to wrangle phone numbers out of the ones she deems passable by her yardstick.

“Late,” I say – as is the excuse you always have to give when one of your new found friends tries to persuade you to hit the town after hours. I know for a fact that this guy won’t even be on his feet by the time my shift finishes.

“ _Hmm_  – sure I can’t persuade you to flunk off early?”

I force an amicable laugh at that, but shake my head.

“I’m alright. Would you like another drink?”

I watch the man sink a little lower into his bar stool, and he chews on the inside of his cheek, breaking his smile.

_Jean does that_ , is all I can think.

“’S alright,” the man says, waving me off with a waft of his hand and a change in attitude that suddenly feels a lot cooler. “Better get back to the party.”

He nudges his empty glass closer to me across the bar, and then slips ungracefully off his stool. I watch him quizzically as he meanders back across the floor, practically falling into the empty space at the table where his colleagues are still chattering. He slumps, face-first, onto the table, and there’s a rumble of laughter as his friends slap him on the back, and the girl with the red hair practically keels over sideways, clutching her gut.

I shrug it off, and slide the man’s glass into the crate with the rest. Crouching on the floor and rearranging the rows of sticky tankards, I see a pair of high-heels come to stop in front of me.

“You’re unbelievable, y’know?” Hitch says with a scathing chuckle. I glance up at her; she has her hand on her cocked hip, resting all of her weight on one legs. Her smile in thin and wiry and definitely holding back more biting laughter.

“Why?” I ask, pursing my lips in fake annoyance. Hitch snorts.

“That guy was  _totally_  hitting on you,” she scoffs, clicking her tongue in her mouth. “Kept checking your ass out when you were turned around.”

I feel heat shoot into my face and my eyes go wide.

“W-what?” I stammer, springing to my feet, and taking a step back in the same motion. The tips of my ears burn furiously. “N-no way! He was just  _drunk_!”

“Drunk  _and_  hitting on you,” she sniggers, tilting her head to look out at the table in the far corner. “Shame. He was  _hot_. I’d I’ve liked to chat him up myself. You sure you not into that?”

“N-no! Hitch, jeez, he’s just some  _guy_ —”

Hitch glances over her shoulder to check that no-one needs serving, and then leans back against the bar, crossing her slender legs provocatively. She quirks one of her thin, neatly-plucked eyebrows.

“So just fuck him and don’t tell,” she leches – and I blanch. She laughs again at my reaction. “Fuck, you’re such a virgin –  it’s  _great_. Hell, Chris Evans – or  _whoever_  your gay ass wanks to – could walk right in here and start flirting with  _you and you’d never know_.”

I swallow thickly, and refuse to let my mind go to the place it threatens to go to.

“I don’t w-want to be flirted with,” I say, trying and failing pretty miserably to steady my voice. “B-besides …”

“Besides,” Hitch mimics crassly, curling her lips around a feline smile, “You like someone else.” When my eyebrows shoot up into my hairline, she grins triumphantly. “I can tell.”

She rocks forward on her feet, her musky perfume invading my space as she slithers into my personal space. For such a small and lithe woman, she …  _really has an intimidating presence_. I gulp, and square my shoulders.

“You want to fuck  _him_ , don’t you?” she snickers, “You’re blushing like  _crazy_ , Marco.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I wheeze, glancing sideways to try and find some means of escape. Unfortunately for me, no-one wants a drink, no-one wants a chat, and no-one wants to  _flirt_.

Hitch leans back again with a satisfied smirk as she inspects her chipped nails; glossy red giving way to a black coat beneath.

“Sure,” she laments, “ _Sure_. If you say so.”

“I … I  _do_  say so,” I reply, as sternly as I can. The shaky nod of my head can’t be very convincing though. Nor can the redness I can feel in my cheeks as Jean’s face manages to bludgeon its way into the forefront of my consciousness.

_No. Nope. Nopity-nope. Don’t think about it._

Hitch pouts, but the gleam in her narrow eyes is mischievous and playful.

“So,” she purrs, “This  _Jeen_  guy is— what exactly?”

I splutter over a lot of indistinguishable noises and she throws her head back and laughs wickedly. I stumble over trying to spit out:  _h-how do you know about that?_ , when she reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out … my cell phone.

“H-how –  _when_  did you steal that?!” I gawk, making a grab for it just as she hoists it out of my reach, pressing her other hand into my arm to keep it away from pinching back what is mine. “Hitch, c’mon – give it back!”

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you, sweetheart,” she chuckles teasingly, “You should think about putting a lock on your messages though –  _wow_. It really looks like this  _Jeen_  has your panties in a twist.”

My cheeks and my ears and the back of my neck – and basically  _everywhere_  – burns fiercely. I try to wrack my brains for anything incriminatory she might have found there – but literally all my messages to Jean are civil. Friendly. They’re just between friends. Because that’s what we are. We’re  _friends_.

It’s not like he knows how horrendously in  _love_  with him I am. It’s not like that’s something she can know from reading our silly text messages –  _is it_?

Hitch pulls her arm back, and hits the unlock button of my phone – the screen lights up her face blue as she opens my inbox and begins to scroll through it with her thumb.

“I mean – maybe I  _was_  wrong,” she says slyly, “You’re  _definitely_  flirting with this guy. It’s a little chaste for my liking, but hey – maybe I could send something for y—”

“N-no!” I squeak, this time managing to snatch my phone out of her painted fingers. “Hitch, don’t!”

She laughs again, eyes following where I check my phone for any misdemeanours on her part, and then tuck it safely into the deep pocket of my pants. She folds her arms across her chest, and I frown at her.

“You’re one step away from putting kisses at the ends of those texts,” she remarks crassly with a nod of her head. “So domestic. It’s disgusting. You should just tell  _Jeen_  that you want to bone him, Marco.”

“I—I— it’s  _Jean_ , not  _Jeen_ , and I— I don’t want to b— I’m not  _flirting_  with him, Hitch. He’s my … my  _friend_.”

“Jean,  _Jeen_ , whatever,” she says, waving her hand with a flick of her nimble wrist, “Y’know, I once blew a guy called Jean way back in high school. Total virgin, and he was so  _vocal_ , if you get what I mean – really whiney and messy, y—”

“Hitch!”

She laughs again, and I think I’m going to  _combust_. I can practically feel the sweat forming on the back of my neck. Steam will be coming out of my ears soon enough.

And what’s  _worse_  – she succeeds in getting my mind to wonder to exactly that. Exactly what I don’t  _want_ to be thinking about. Exactly to what makes her smirk so victoriously as she watches the cogs whir inside my head.

I think of Jean, and I think of his pretty brown eyes fluttering closed, and I think of the sharp angles of his cheeks and his jaw, and the hewed lines of his hips as they rise off the mattress with the arch of his back, and I think of the little whimpers he might make when I press my lips up and down his flushed c—

Oh God. Oh God, no. Nope. Nope. No. Not going there. Don’t do it, don’t think about, don’t even entertain the idea of— that.  _T-that_.

_He’s your friend, Marco. Your friend, your best friend, the guy who pays your bills – think of him as anything else that’s not_ that _. He can’t be that._

I swallow thickly, and hear the expulsion of air from Hitch’s nose as she snorts haughtily. I follow her green eyes down to wear she’s staring at the half-chub that’s going on in my pants.

_F-fuck_.

“But I mean,” she says slowly, letting her eyes flit back up to mine, “I’m sure there a whole bunch of other guys called Jean out there.”

I let out a little, choked  _sob_  of a noise, and she licks her lips, reaching out to pat me on the shoulder with her thin hand.

“It’s alright, babe,” she jibes, dropping her gaze momentarily, her grin stretching sly again. “You might want to go and take care of that. Don’t want to scare away our customers, even if blondy in the corner might be into it.”

I make a whining noise again, which only seems to stir the disgustingly  _X-rated_  thoughts of Jean inside my head, all purple bruises along the insides of his white thighs and breathy little moans and—

_Jesus, save me. Please. I could use a hand, oh God._

“Back room’s free for another hour or two before  _bowl cut_  shows us,” Hitch sniggers, “Give _Jeen-y_  boy a call – maybe he can help you out with  _that_.” She shoots me a wink, and I want to be swallowed up by the  _ground_. “Anyway,  _I’ve_  got some numbers to try and get. If you’ll excuse me.”

Hitch slips away with another, braying laugh, her heels clicking on the flagstone floor as she wheedles her way down to the end of the bar, dossing out some crass words to the men perched on the stools, before she slithers her away across the floor, towards the table in the back corner.

I do use the opportunity to sneak away into the back room, but I don’t— well, I don’t do  _that_. God, I think I’ve been shamed enough for life without having to …  _to knock one out_  whilst sitting on a crate of unopened beer.

I let myself cool down under the artificial light of the store room, letting the bright yellow glare purge me of all the thought that Hitch squished into my head under the husky light of the bar. It takes a few slaps of my cheeks and a long time staring at my feet with my head in my hands before I reckon my body temperature resembles something more like normal.

I hear the back door click after a while, accompanied by dragging footsteps and gruff muttering, and Marlow shuffles his way through the stores – stopping, surprised, when he finds me curled up in a corner.

“Woah, dude – why aren’t you out front?” he asks – almost,  _almost_  managing to feign genuine concern. That’s pretty good for Marlow, I guess. Wearily, I raise my head from out of my arms, and blink slowly and dopily at him. Marlow seems to reel back, warily. “You … you feeling alright?”

“Just peachy,” I mutter, “Hitch is on fire tonight, so …  _head’s up_.”

Marlow swallows gravely, and I watch him steel himself as he turns squarely to face the beaded curtain leading out into the bar area. He practically  _pales_  when our collective nuisance comes waltzing through the door, brandishing a napkin in her hand and a satisfied smile on her red lips. I manage to catch the black scribbles of a telephone number on the flimsy white tissue.

“Well, God bless those bisexuals,” she lauds, blowing Marlow a kiss that makes him grimace, and running her free hand through my mop of hair. “Cheer up, Marco, babe. Tonight’s going to be a good night after all!”


End file.
